Carnevale Magic Part One - Silence
by bonavitaetgaudium
Summary: Italy invites Germany to Carnevale in Venice 1953. Turns out, all the countries are able to perform magic! But, when Germany accidentally uses Italy's own magic against him, he and his friends must discover their powers to return Italy's voice. They also learn a bit about each other along the way! T to be safe, no yaoi, multiple OCs, a LOT of OOCness. First part only.
1. There's No Such Thing As Magic!-Germany

I can't believe I let Italy rope me into this. Not only am I standing in the middle of a square in Venice surrounded by a crowd of people dressed like freaks, but I am costumed in the same fashion! And he thinks Carnival is fun... WAIT A SECOND! Where is he?!

"GERMANY!" Italy sings in his high-pitched voice. I turn around to see the young man dragging behind him, of all people, his older brother. The older of the Italy brothers, Romano, rants loudly in Italian, I'm assuming, and becomes enraged when he sees my masked face.

"WHY THE CRAPPOLA IS HE HERE?!" he shouts at his little brother, who scowls behind his glittering green and silver mask.

"I thought it would be a good idea," Italy mumbles, "since we're all in need of a little break." The thin auburn curl sticking out of the left side of his head twitches angrily. I haven't seen Italy angry since...since...well, ever.

It's the middle of spring in 1953, and our countries are still working hard after World War Two. Italy, even with the least participation, has made it his, *ahem*, obsession to repay his brother France and his allies. I don't blame him. As you could imagine (well, maybe not), I am still ticked off at my old boss, who (thankfully) committed suicide. If only our debt would end its own life...

Italy and Romano are bickering again. I can't tell why, because they are shooting their mouths off in Italian. Those two are as different as, well, say Japan and me. Not quite so physically. Romano, who has the benefit of the southern sun, is slightly (but just slightly) darker in skin tone than Italy, but Italy's hair is a lighter, redder shade than his brother's. Yet they have the same amber eyes, a trait shared with their grandfather.

In accordance with Carnival's, *ahem*, (stupid) tradition, we're all dressed in costume. I hate it. I itch in the shimmery (ick!) red and black suit, and I desperately want to throw aside the cap Italy forced on my head. However, the brothers seem perfectly content in their costumes. Italy has attired himself in a silver and emerald suit with a long green robe and a floppy green hat. Meanwhile, Romano stands out in a sapphire and gold suit with a gold top hat that has three blue feathers in the band. They make an interesting pair...

"Signore e signori," an announcer says in Italian, "la vostra attenzione, per favore! For our English speakers, ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please!" Thank you for English speakers. "Per la vostra celebrazione annuale del Carnevale, il nostro giovane Feliciano Vargas! For your annual celebration of Carnival, our own young Feliciano Vargas!" Who the heck is Feliciano Vargas?! That can't be - it is.

Italy slowly climbs the steel steps to the small stage, and everyone freezes, captivated by the young man before them. Even Romano fixates on him, despite his general hatred of Italy. His hand shaking (and, yes, I can see it from here), Italy takes the microphone. "Ciao, everyone," Italy says, his voice wavering. "Well, I'm assuming you've all been here before, so I'll just go ahead and start." He takes a deep breath, and, instead of just exhaling, he sings a clear, four-note melody. If I remember my music correctly, the tones are 'la-do-ti-so.' The crowd weakly mimics, with Romano having the only crystal voice among them.

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite hear everyone," Italy says, hinting at something. He repeats the notes in a choral tone. The people around me sing strongly this time. "Meglio." Now he sings a similar six-note melody, 'la-do-ti-so-la-la.' The crowd now sings as if in a trance. I don't understand what's going on.

I glance around me, and I suddenly see familiar people. Twenty feet to my left is my older brother, Prussia, who looks simply foolish in a Venetian clown costume. Ten feet in front of me is France, who is like a neon sign in his red and blue suit. Not far to my right is Spain, their oldest brother, and forty feet in front of him is my cousin, Austria, with his ex-wife, Hungary. I turn around and see England, America, and America's twin brother Canada standing close together ten feet back. Why is everyone here, and, most of all, why are some of the Allies here?

I turn back to face the stage. Italy seems to be rooted to the spot where he stands. Then he starts spinning on the spot, and his hair and clothes seem to be floating of their own accord. I look down at Romano for an explanation, but he is entranced like the others. My hand waves in front of his face, and he doesn't blink. This is getting all too weird for me!

I start to back away, but I see Italy opening his mouth and freeze. Is he about to rat me out? No, he starts to sing. "Luci risplendere, musica ballare intorno a noi. Le anime si uniscono, diventano uno, vincolati da ere magia 'il nostro tempo." Dang, I hate Italian. Can't understand a word they say. "Stelle ondeggiano, la luna splende, si balla a tempo con cieli. Sonno acque, marea rallenta, cantiamo al ritmo profondo. Musica e magia ci guida, e ci conduca alla felicità questa notte." I watch my friend and realize that he is floating six inches above the stage. No strings attached.

When I see this, I nearly pass out, especially when I see dancing lights?! I hear a ghostly melody accompanied with an eerily singular yet echoing chorus. My friends, family, and old enemies all seem, I suppose, happy. And so do I. The music and lights are surprisingly calming, but, when I realize that everything is actually coming from Italy himself, I lose it.

"What the heck is going on?!" I shout, seemingly breaking everyone out of their trance. Italy's eyes snap back open, and he drops to the stage. I hear a resounding CRACK. I do hope it isn't what I think it is.

Romano looks up at me, scowling. The stage manager, a rotund Venetian, goes up to the stage and converses with Italy for a moment in rapid-fire Italian. I can see tears in Italy's eyes, and he appears to be holding his left leg gingerly. The stage manager takes the microphone in his hand and says, in English, "Ladies and gentlemen, due to, ah," he glances at Italy, whose eyes shimmer sadly behind his mask, "an unfortunate accident, we will not be, ah, continuing tonight. Er, thank you for your cooperation." A few small children sigh, and some even sniffle.

The crowd disperses, but us countries make our way to the stage. Romano runs ahead of me and pushes himself onto the stage next to his brother, to whom he gives a tight hug. France and Spain seem to be distressed, but England is smirking. Was it him that disturbed the performance with his dark magic? I shiver at the thought.

"Feliciano, are you alright?" Romano asks his little brother, his arms still tight around him. He buries his face in Italy's hair, and I see tears glistening on the eyelashes of both.

"Lovino, I think my leg is broken," Italy says tearfully. Whenever the brothers address each other by their human names, it means they are truly upset. "I felt something wrong, but I don't know what it was."

"I felt it as well," France adds, twirling the red rose in his lapel. He turns to the eldest brother. "Antonio, did you feel it?" Spain contemplates the question.

"I don't quite know, Francis," he answers. France cringes at the use of his human name. "I might have felt something, but Lovino was trying to tell me something." My head reels at all of this crazy talk.

"What the heck are you talking about?" I say loudly. Everyone looks at me, and Prussia laughs at me.

"Magic, West. Didn't you get that?" Prussia says, making voodoo fingers at me.

"Magic. This is magic? I don't believe it," I assert, frowning. Italy flicks his wrist and sends a shower of sparkling lights in my direction. They dissipate right in front of my face.

"Believe in something, and it will come true," he says quietly. "What you saw was real, as is what I can do every day."

"What do you mean by that?" America asks loudly, flashing his 'hero' smile. Canada taps his brother's shoulder, but goes unnoticed.

"Watch," Italy implores. Romano helps him stand, and, hand pointed to the ground, pretends to draw a circle in front of him. He raises two inches off the stage, then drifts down to the ground level, landing on both feet. "My leg's all better!" Hungary feels at his leg, and when he doesn't flinch, she gasps in both horror and amazement.

England chuckles in a way that is not pleasing. "You call that magic?" he teases, wagging his finger. "That's nothing. Watch this!" If he turns himself into a human being, that would be fantastic. He chants a few lines of, well, gibberish, and when nothing happens, Romano jumps down from the stage and laughs.

"You make me laugh," Romano snickers. "It's true that everyone has their own magic, but only a select few can actually use it. And even fewer that can use it fully." If someone says 'magic' one more time, I am going to strangle that person.

"Will someone at least translate what Italy said?" Canada says softly. No one notices but me, so I take matters into my own hands. I lift Canada off the ground and set him directly in front of the brothers.

"If you want to ask them something, speak up," I say sternly. Canada seems frightened, squeezing his polar bear. But he turns to Italy anyway. They're relatively good friends, since they are both often dismissed by others.

"What did you say, Italy? In English, please," Canada asks his friend. Italy seems reluctant at first, but quickly consents.

He once again enters a trance-like state and recites the words, "Lights shine forth, music dance around us. Souls unite, become one, bound by magic 'ere our time. Stars sway, moon shines, we dance in time with the heavens. Waters sleep, tide slows, we sing in rhythm with the deep. Music and magic guide us, and lead us to happiness this night." The tension in the air dissolves, and all of our previous disputes and squabbles seem to disappear. The night seems happy.

"It's a song of festival, a song of settling one's problems and coming together as a whole," Romano explains, gesturing the entire time. "Only Italians can use it, because only Italians know the true spirit of Carnevale." I somehow don't find this to be true.

"So, do I have magic?" I ask, drawing a funny look from Italy and his brothers.

"Technically, you do," says Spain, twisting his arm. "But my brothers and I have been harnessing it for centuries. You haven't been around that long."

"I want to use it," I say before I can stop myself. I'm not lying, but it's childish. Italy frowns thoughtfully. He walks up to me and takes my large hands in his small, thin ones.

He looks at me with innocent amber eyes. "I can give you some, but not a lot," he says. "Too much transference could kill either of us." I already know that, despite common knowledge, we can still die, since Italy himself has already given his own life three times for mine.

It feels like he's forcing something into my system, something that doesn't belong. It's not unpleasant, just strange. The magic is warm, like sunshine (geez, I'm sounding like Italy). Italy's eyes are squeezed tightly closed, like he's enduring some sort of horrible torture. Then again, that could very well be the case; I'm taking a part of him, and all he can do is stand there.

When it's over, everyone's staring at the pair of us. Italy falls to his knees, his hands still grasping mine. I feel sorry for him, but I don't know how to give it back. I hear him sobbing, and I drop to his level, putting my hands on his shoulders. I say the only thing that seems appropriate. "Das glück kommt zu lhnen." Happiness will come to you. It isn't much, but I hope it makes him feel better.

My hands suddenly become warm, and I feel something channeling into my little friend. His face becomes rosy and he's surprised. He looks up at me, and he throws his arms around my neck. I see the look of confusion on everyone's faces, but I'm perfectly happy. Italy hangs on my neck, and he's happy. And with his name, he ought to be. Always.

He stands up, and instantly America starts jabbering. I bring Italy's magic up inside me and muster all of it to say one little word: "STILLE!" The magic shoots out of my hand, and, unfortunately, the worst possible thing could happen. Italy runs up to America to clamp a hand over his mouth and the bolt hits him square in between the shoulder blades.

Italy freezes. He turns toward me, silent, and crumples to the ground. His eyes are wide in disbelief.

"FELICIANO!" his brothers shriek, rushing to help him. It's all my fault.

ǂ

**Author's Notes:**** Hey, everyone! First fanfic ever published! Anyway, if anyone's wondering, all the characters are a bit OOC in this because it's me and my friend SpillSomeInk's Hetalia universe. Please bear with us. The first part is entirely done, actually, but I won't be publishing it all at once. Also, the POV jumps around a lot, so I'll add whose POV it is at the beginning of each chapter; this one's Germany's if you didn't catch it. R&R please, and all flames will be played with by Japan, our little pyromancer who comes in later. If anyone knows better translations than these, please tell me. ^^ I do not own Hetalia~! *spins* bonavitaetgaudium out~!  
PS: no yaoi in this. If you want lots of GerIta, Spamano, USUK, etc., go somewhere else, I do not support any of those pairings at all. Except for SuFin, because Sweden is actually CONFIRMED to be gay. Again, you want boyxboy or even girlxgirl, leave this page at once! *points at the back button***


	2. Trip to Vienna - Germany

We're all piled in my army truck, with the majority sitting disgruntled in the truck bed. Romano and Italy sit in the rear seats, Italy having (more or less) recovered from the blow. His legs are tight to his chest, and Romano is trying to console him. "Feliciano, are you alright?" he asks pitifully. He's asked that already. This is the twelfth time he's asked. Just great.

Italy doesn't answer, because he can't. My one little word, 'silence', has cost my only true friend his voice. In the rearview mirror, I watch his eyes drift from his brother to me. I've said I'm sorry a dozen times, despite Italy's silent pleading for me to stop. I mouth the two words in the mirror, and hope he catches it.

"Hey, West, why can't I sit up there?" Prussia asks me. I glance in the mirror and see his head poking through the window in the rear of the cab.

"You're blocking my view, bruder," I say forcefully. He doesn't relent...he's such a pain.

For a moment, I think about what France said to me at the square. 'If my baby brother doesn't get his voice back, you're dead meat.' He was as serious as the plague. I dread him actually carrying through with it. Like his brothers, France can be strong if he wants, and, unlike the wiry strength of Italy and Romano, France and Spain have some brute strength, sometimes even matching mine.

We're driving to Austria's house on his instructions. I would have liked to take Italy back to his house, but my cousin was adamant, as was his ex with her frying pan. It wasn't exactly a bad idea, but Vienna is quite a way from the waterways of Venice.

"Hiya, West!" my brother shouts in my ear. I jump a little and curse at him in German.

"HOW THE HECK DID YOU GET UP HERE?!" I shout back. Prussia smiles, the little bird on his head chirping.

"Thank him," he says, pointing at the back. I look back and see Romano waving. I also see that, despite my jump and Prussia's silly actions, Italy is still downcast.

"We're not that far off, Italy," I say reassuringly. "Not that far."

ǂ

When we arrive at my cousin's house, Italy brightens slightly. He scribbles a smiley face on his hand with a pen and shows it to me. There has to be an easier way for him to communicate...

Italy grew up in this house, and, for a short period of time, so did Romano. The elder puts his arm around Italy, who is still a bit tearful. Austria walks past them, and ruffles Italy's hair in passing.

Once inside, Italy and his brothers all sit on the sofa, and Italy buries his face in Romano's coat. France puts one arm around him, and Spain is muttering something. They're an odd bunch.

Wind and rain begins outside, and Prussia jumps at the boom of thunder, his red eyes going huge. His bird, who he named Gilbird, chirps loudly as the lights go out. England's green eyes seem to glow, even in the absence of light, so he aids Austria in finding some candles. At the next crack of lightning, I see Italy holding onto his brothers, who comfort him in his fear. Fear is something I have rarely felt, and I really only feel fear at the wrath of his older brothers.

England and Austria come back with two candelabras and two separate candles. My cousin has something tucked under his arm, which he hands to Italy. It's a whiteboard, so Italy can talk to us. He smiles, and immediately starts scribbling on it. When he shows us, it reads 'Thanks, Austria. And, Prussia, you scream like a girl.'

Laughter ensues at his little comment, and in the glow of the candles I see my brother go red. He's been around longer than me, yet he acts like a college student. Right now he looks like someone just told his frat' brothers that he has a pet 'birdie.' It's hilarious, and I can't help but laugh as well.

Spain messes up Italy's hair, and Italy playfully swats his hand away. He writes something on his whiteboard, but shows only his brothers. Whatever it is, it makes them all giggle like schoolchildren. Spain turns as red as his coat.

"Hey, dude, why don't we try to figure out a way to get your voice back?" America asks. For once, I agree with him. But this is gonna be a long night. Oh, great joy.

**AN: Hey guys! New chapter up! Technically, it's like two chapters, as evidenced by the line of double daggers. This is actually Germany's symbol for his perspective. Italy's is a '*', Romano's is '', and so on. I'll explain more symbols as more characters give their perspectives. Anyway, Lovi's next to give his opinion. No, he will not curse in here, I pretty much have a rule against that. The worst he'll say is 'hell' and 'pissed', and he won't say that until part two. Or unwritten rants in Italian, but, again, part two. So... I do not own Hetalia~! *spins* Or else all of this would be true and the Buon San Valentino strip would be scrapped. No GerIta for me, SpillSomeInk and I have our own pairings for each of them with OCs. Enough ranting from me, bonavitaetgaudium out~! PASTAAAAAAA~! *Italy run into the sunset***


	3. The First Night - Romano and Germany

**AN: Yay! New chapter! Anyway, this is, again, two chapters in one. The first part is our dear Lovi speaking, because we need some of his cynical input XD. The second part is Luddy, Prussia's awesome little brother~. Just a quick heads-up to y'all so you don't get confused.**

We've been brainstorming for two hours, and no one seems to have any ideas. Or at least any realistic ones. Feliciano smiles at me, then slides me his whiteboard. 'What do you think, Lovi?' I take the marker from him and write, 'I think England has no idea what he's talking about, Vene.' He makes like he's about to laugh, but then he remembers that he can't. I want to cry.

I know that Germany didn't mean to hit my baby brother, yet I still hold him responsible. I watch the blonde's actions from across the table. He's said he's sorry a zillion times, and yet he says it even more. "I'm sorry," he mutters for the tenth time in thirty minutes. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Feliciano scrawling on his board. He slides it across the wooden table, and Germany catches it. "Well, then, call me weak."

I suddenly realize what Feliciano wrote. It's something our grandfather, the Roman Empire, always told us. We really never listened. 'Don't say you're sorry. It's a sign of weakness.'

"Dudes, we really need to think of a plausible idea to get Italy his voice back," America says, interrupting Germany's guilt party. For once, the light-haired nation is making sense. He adjusts his glasses, then wrenches the whiteboard out of my brother's hands. Feliciano makes a feeble attempt at getting it back, but America is as stubborn as me. "Maybe he can give us an idea of what's going on." He is back to making no sense.

Feliciano mouths his words, and the effect is pathetic. He's quivering all over, and he's gone four shades paler. He tries to say, 'I can't speak, and you know it. How do you expect me to tell you anything without that whiteboard?' His head goes on the table, and I hear him sobbing. I try to comfort him, but it's not working. When he lifts his head up, his eyes are full of tears, and the tiny droplets make tracks down his face.

"Don't you see what you're doing?" Antonio asks America, who looks at the whiteboard in his hands. "My youngest brother has lost his voice, and you're trying to make him talk. _Es una estupidez!_" America doesn't need a translation for that.

"Here," he says, handing my brother back the whiteboard. Feliciano hesitates, but takes it back. "Maybe we shouldn't even be trying tonight. Let's all go to sleep, eat something, and try again with clear heads in the morning."

"America's right," England says, rising from his chair. "We're all exhausted, no doubt, and I highly doubt that any of us have had a decent meal since lunch." He puts his hand on Feliciano's shoulder, which frightens both him and me. For all we know, he could have been the one who disrupted the performance, not Germany! "What say you, Italy?"

Feliciano takes up his marker and writes something in Italian. '_Credo che l'America è giusto, e tu sei raccapriccante_.' He adds something. 'I'm not telling you what it means ' England fumes, then leaves. I hug my brother tightly. I'm not letting him go again.

ǂ

I can't sleep at all. The guilt is gnawing at my brain. I've just done one of the most horrible acts of my life and I can't do a thing... Would my grandfather have known what to do? It's possible, but unlikely.

I sit up in bed, and see my brother's sleeping form on the adjacent bunk. Good, he's asleep. I stand up and creep out into the hall.

I remember when I annexed Austria in WWII. He was irritating, and he seemed out of place. Out of place...like I am right now. I'm standing in a strange house, with some rather strange people, and one of them is my only friend...

The hall is deserted, but when I glance at my watch, I realize that it's three o' clock in the morning. Serves me right. At the end of the hall is the large (understatement; humongous) foyer, where a fire crackles in the fireplace. For a moment, I wonder why, but then I remember. Italy and his brothers have situated themselves out here, insisting that the other countries take the beds. Well, Italy insisted on his whiteboard...

When I look in, I see that Romano secured himself the couch (Italy probably told him to), Spain and France sleep on beds made of chairs, and Italy is asleep on the floor by the fireplace. I'm about to yell at him to get off of the floor, but I catch myself. Not only would that wake up everyone, but I would most likely get throttled by his brothers for lurking around him. I settle for sitting in a chair that the older two left alone and watching his breathing. It's usually Romano's job, but since he's sleeping and I can't, I guess it falls to me.

I learned only a year or two after the end of the war that Italy has asthma, and a rather severe case at that. Romano tells me it was because of the prolonged presence in Rome during its burning in 26 A.D., but I think another contributing factor was that he's had the plague. Most of them have, and it's hurt them in more than one way. When I found out about his asthma, I nearly fainted, mostly because he's quite a runner and a climber. He's a funny kid...

I count off numbers in my head, and my eyelids droop. Maybe I'll actually sleep...

**AN: Whew! That's out of the way! Anyway, here's the quick little translations for the Spanish and Italian:**

**Es una estupidez - Spanish for 'It's stupid'**

**Credo che l'America e giusto, e tu sei raccapriccante - Italian for 'I think America is right, and you're creepy'**

**Oh, and in this story and all my other stories, Italy has asthma for the reasons given above. And he was born in 20 A.D. and his brothers born three, five, or six years before. There will be more explanation later in the story, and we'll get to see their mama! ...in a flashback, but you get the point. So, I only own the plot and a few OCs who appear much later. I do not own Hetalia~! *spins* bonavitaetgaudium out~! *epic Italy run***


	4. Let's Get This Started!- Italy & America

**AN: two chapters in one yet again~! And we have a new symbol this time around! America's symbol is '-' for some wild reason... ON TO THE STORY! :D**

I dream of my grandfather. He was with us again, and he said he would never leave again. Even big brothers Francis and Antonio hang on his every word, and I have jumped onto his back, acting like a small child. But when I try to talk to him, no words. He frowns, then takes me in his arms. Tears fall, as he knows that he'll never hear my voice again.

My body aches, and not the natural way. The transference of my magic to Germany drained me, and, even if I could speak, I would not even be able to heal a little cut. I feel helpless, and I feel like that frightened child who had no clue that magic existed.

I stir slightly, and I open my eyes. When I look up, I see a dark shadow in one of the previously untouched chairs, and I bolt up, making a lot of noise in the process. The figure wakes up, and I realize it's Germany, but not before I bump into the side table and upset a vase. It shatters, and my brothers jolt out of their slumber. They start shouting at Germany, scolding him for who knows what. Hurried footsteps come from the corridor, and I see America heading the crowd of countries. He holds a flashlight in his hand.

"What happened?" he says, looking at our stunned faces. "We heard clattering, then the vase shattered and people started shouting and-." Canada tugs on his shirt sleeve. "Huh?" He points at me. I am holding up my whiteboard, with a new message on it.

'Germany scared me, that's all,' it says. Pain shoots up my right leg, and I collapse. America aims his flashlight at the spot I point to, and everyone sees shards from the vase stuck in my calf. He takes great care in extracting them, and Lovino seals the wounds with his magic.

"Well, at least that was it," Austria contemplates. Antonio gathers the shards together, and with a wave of his hand, the vase repairs itself.

"Sorry about that," he says, handing the newly repaired vase to Hungary. He pulls on his green pants, which are three inches too long. "Francis, help me with these." Francis rolls his eyes.

"You could have gotten shorter pants," he chastises, letting Antonio balance on his shoulder.

"These are supposed to be my size, Francis," Antonio replies, trying to pull on the pants. Prussia snickers, while America openly laughs.

"That's not very nice," Canada says, poking his brother's arm. America shrugs.

"We need to find a way to get my little brother his voice back," Lovino shouts, bringing everyone's attention to the task at hand. I agree wholeheartedly. Then the phone rings. Oh, great joy, Austria, a phone call. America runs to pick up the hand set.

"Hello?" I say. The phone line is pretty awful. Austria is a real penny pincher.

"Is Italy there? Can I talk to him?" asks an Italian girl with a high-pitched voice.

"Who is this?" I say, holding the receiver with two hands.

"Feliciana! Can I talk to Italy?" She is sure persistent.

"I'm sorry, who did you say you were?" This is really getting on my nerves.

"I'm his sister, now, can I talk to him?" I gesture for Romano to come back me up. I mouth the word 'sister', and he jerks the handset out of my hand.

"Feli!" Romano shrieks, then he covers his mouth. I see Italy poking his head around the corner, and I decide to join him. "Feli, is that you?"

"Who is he talking to, Italy?" I ask the older country. He looks up at me with innocent eyes and points to his whiteboard. I suddenly remember yanking it out of his hands yesterday, and his crying that I heard in the middle of the night.

'That's our little sister, Sicily,' he writes, his hands quivering. 'I don't want her to know, okay?' I cross my heart, a symbol that I will uphold his wish. What else can I do, if anything?

"Romano, don't tell her," I call, and the older brother nods his head, still holding the phone to his ear.

"Yeah, Feli, we'll be home in a couple weeks, okay? No, he's, uh, still asleep. No, I am not lying to you!" Prussia snickers in the room behind us, and I whip my head around.

"Buzz off, Gilbert!" I hiss, waving him off. He shrugs and stalks off, his bird chirping in his ear. Romano hangs up and walks up to his little brother, his arms outstretched. Italy drops his whiteboard and runs into his brother's arms, nearly knocking him over. I walk behind the two of them and rub the back of the shorter one's head. Italy's hair is soft and silky, like this girl I know remotely.

"Are we going to get anything done?" Hungary shouts, and I can visualize her lifting her heavy frying pan.

"Don't get your hair in a twist, Bet," England snaps, using her childish nickname. She growls in a very un-ladylike way. This time I turn around and see Hungary about to pounce on England like a jaguar.

"Artie, quit trying to intimidate her. She's a lot stronger than most of us, and I don't think these guys' white magic is enough to glue you together again." I feel a tugging on the back of my jacket and spin on my heel to see Italy with one hand on my jacket and the other holding his whiteboard.

'How did you know that ours is white magic?' I read this, then put my arm around him.

"England, in case you haven't noticed, has black magic, and yours is nothing like his," I explain. "Yours makes people happy and well, and his," I turn to England, "his makes me feel sick just thinking about it." Uproarious laughter ensues, and poor Italy can only make a laughing face. I hug him tightly, and I suddenly know how it is for Matt, always getting left in the dust, more often than not getting left for dead.

I know that Italy in his physical body has felt more hardships than any of us combined, and that his nation's problems have nothing to do with him personally. He nearly died in the desert of North Africa, was heavily assaulted by the rest of the Allied Forces, and had been beaten severely by his boss, Benito Mussolini. And that was just World War Two. His stamina and dependability are actually among the highest of any of us, as well as his fierce loyalty to his friends and family. He'll refuse to do anything that he doesn't want to do, and, unless you threaten to put a bullet in his head, he will stick to that. Personally, I wish he had been on the Allies. Superior personal firearms, a fleet of battleships that could have totally dominated our forces, and, of course, a fiery, determined set of soldiers. He's a tough guy for his size.

"Let's get this thing started!"

**AN:** **okay, little bit of headcanon in that last big paragraph. And the Italian girl on the other end of the phone is my friend's first OC, Sicily~! She's the youngest Vargas girl and she and Germany have crushes on each other. \(^O^)/ And the girl America references is ANOTHER one of my friend's OCs, Alaska! Russia's little sister! Kolkolkolkolkolkolkolkolkolkolkolkolkolkol... XD the Vargas boys can't glue Artie back together if Hungary beats him with her frying pan. Anyway, I don't own Hetalia~! *spins* Bona out~! *epic Italy run***


	5. Music and Signatures - Italy and Canada

**AN: two updates in a twenty-four hour period! Amazing! This is partially so I can answer a few questions that arose after the last chapter. First, Sicily and Germany together was my friend's idea, not mine, just for clarification, although there is historical merit. Second, my friend named Sicily Feliciana so they would seem connected as a family; also, they usually call Italy 'Vene' in this story, short for Veneziano. Finally, the question arose about them using magic to get Italy's voice back. Well, they technically ****_can't_**** yet. None of them heard what Germany said, despite him shouting it, and the only two who ****_did_**** hear it can't remember. Also, there's another problem that's explained closer to the end. I hope that clarifies, friends ^^' I can't write why they can't do it because that's a spoiler. Thanks for the review and questions, LilDeadKitty! Magical Disclaimer time~! Italy, you do it!**

**Italy: what do I get in return, Bona?**

**Bona: I'll put a flashback with Christina in it in Part Two. (Christina is the historical version of my OC for him, no, she is not a country)**

**Italy: you were going to do that anyway!**

**Bona: I'll put two, then.**

**Italy: Ve~ Okay~! Bona does not own me, Hetalia Axis Powers, or anything other than the plot and a few OCs that appear later. *spins for me***

**R&R, guys! Bona out~! *epic Italy run***

Three hours, and I'm still waiting for Antonio and Francis. Prussia is continually poking me, well, everywhere, and it's getting annoying. Germany tries to stand in front of me, but his older brother is as stubborn as a mule. Canada has managed to get Kumajirou to sit on my lap without protest, but the little thing paws at my face, asking for something to eat. Austria bangs his head against the piano keys, though I have no clue why.

"Would you stop that, please?" Canada begs for the third time. Austria, for the third time, ignores him. I take matters into my own hands, placing Kumajirou on the floor and walking over the piano. Placing my fingers on the most hideous chord I can think of, I pound out the sound right in Austria's ear. He jerks his head up abruptly, sending himself falling over the back of the bench.

"Aghhh!" Austria cries, landing on his back. He tries to sit up. Germany laughs and Prussia taunts in a conniving way. "You try to play something!" I lift the bench back up, and sit myself down on it. I start playing my preparatory exercises, which, unfortunately, I have been neglecting. "Oh, so now you play your preparatory exercises!" Turning my head around to face his, I playfully stick my tongue halfway out of my mouth. He returns the gesture in a rude way.

After five minutes, I finally decide on a piece to play. Germany slowly realizes what it is. "Fur Elise?" I nod but don't stop playing. "It's a pretty song." Another nod.

"Play something more challenging!" Prussia says, irritated. After pounding out a horrible chord, I stick my tongue out all the way in his direction. He returns it in the same fashion.

This song I really like. I gently play the first few notes, and I watch as Austria and Germany start swaying their heads to the rhythm. America can't help but smile, and Canada and Hungary lightly tap their feet. Prussia is still clueless.

"What is it?!" he shouts in the middle of the song. I shoot him a piercing glare, but keep playing. By the end, Prussia has his arms folded and he is tapping his foot impatiently.

"Ave Maria, by Frederic Burgmüller," Germany explains. "A German composer, by the way." I wink at him, then swing my legs over the bench. "Italy, are you done?" Rubbing my tired eyes, I nod, and Lovino, who has just walked in, runs to my side and takes me gently in his arms.

America walks up to the piano and takes the bench. "Can I play something, Austria?" Austria nods, and America proceeds to play a jazzy tune. I write a message on my board as I recline on my brother's shoulder, and, when he's done, I throw the pen, hitting his shoulder. "OW!"

'What song is that?' reads my board. America grins sheepishly.

"It's called 'Current Riffs.' I kinda wrote it myself." He hands me back the pen, and I scribble a new message.

'I like it! ' America smiles, and I smile back. England walks up behind him.

"Can I play something?" England asks. Everyone's eyes widen with shock.

"NO!"

% % % % % %

Italy's brothers seem bent on weirding us out with their magic stuff. I'm not the one that really cares, but England seems irritated about everything they say. "Feliciano, I know this may taste awful, but you have to drink it," France coaxes. Italy presses his lips tightly together, refusing to let his brother pour the foul-smelling liquid down his throat. I can practically see the stink lines. "Come on, Vene! Open your mouth!" England takes matters into his own hands and forces Italy's mouth open, pinching his nose and pulling down on his chin.

Italy kicks in England's general direction as my former guardian pours his horrible potion down his throat. When it's all said and done, Italy makes a face like someone just poured motor oil in his mouth. 'That stuff tastes like castor oil, fratello!' he writes, hitting his brother on the head.

"Well, I'm sorry, Vene, but that was the potion!" France exclaims. He's not mad, just firm. "Try talking." Italy tries his hardest, but we only hear his strained breathing. "Dang it all! I was sure that would work! Sorry, Feliciano." Italy shrugs weakly.

"Why don't you let me try?" England offers. Italy's brothers give him a dark stare.

"I wouldn't let you have a try if you were the last magician on Earth!" Romano shrieks. England advances, his hands glowing with supernatural power. Romano summons a ball of energy that seems to emit, what is that? "Do you want to take your chances with white magic, Arthur?" England backs away from the raw energy in Romano's hands, his own magic diminishing. I hug Kumajirou close to me and blow a curly strand of fair hair out of my face.

"What on Earth was that?!" my brother asks enthusiastically. I glance at him, and he seems surprised. "I, for one, would like to know what that freaky thing was!" Romano enlarges the orb with an expansion of his hands, and I realize that it was emitting tiny green lightning bolts.

"It's called a signature sphere," Spain says, summoning one as well. England leaps back from the sudden addition of more white magic. "The simplest form of a magician's magic that can be twisted and turned into anything, but your signature, as we call it, is perpetually present." My head reels, and I can tell that America's is as well. Sometimes I hate twin senses...

"Explain what a signature is, Tony," France urges, summoning not one, but two balls of energy. Spain shrugs, and France sighs. "Alright, since Monsieur I'm-the-oldest-and-I-know-everything suddenly doesn't have an answer, I will explain what a signature is." I can't help but laugh a little. Italy presses his first two fingers to his lips to shush me.

"Basically, it's like magic DNA. It's your identity as a magician, everyone has their own. My brothers and I have complex signatures because we are higher level magicians." He disappears one ball and points to the other with his now free hand. "For an example, my signature is a blood rose, if you can see the pattern." Twirling the dark red rose in his lapel, France closes his hand on the energy. "I could turn my sphere into anything, but it would take on the same basic pattern of that rose."

"Isn't that a bit feminine?" Germany asks, pointing out the natural meaning of the signature. France frowns.

"I don't pick the signature, Herr Germany, it is given to me. You, for all we know, could have a flutterby." Germany blushes over his ears as uproarious laughter fills the room. "Antonio here has a rock as his signature, which symbolizes, in a way, the Rock of Gibraltar." Spain shows us the orb in his hand, which, as told, has a transparent rock at its center.

"I get green lightning bolts," Romano reveals, "but I have no clue what it means." His brothers shrug.

"What do you have, Italy?" I ask, raising my voice. My brother stares at me, and, much to everyone's amazement, I stride right up to the seated man in front of me. "Italy, I would like an answer." I feel bad about force, but I wouldn't be heard if I didn't use it.

Almost begrudgingly, Italy summons a ball of glowing golden energy. The sheer force of it blows his hair up around his face. His eyes reflect the energy in his hands, and in the center of the swirling chaos is what appears to be tiny spheres. "My little brother's signature is the stars," Romano says quietly, "shining out at us from the heavens. It's one of the most complex signatures in the world, and it is a symbol that he is a great magician." Italy expands the globe in his hands, and I see all the constellations coming together. Everyone seems enchanted by the sphere, even England.

"What is my signature?!" Prussia shouts, snapping everyone out of it. Italy's ball of magic explodes harmlessly, but he is stunned and sent tumbling backwards.

When he sits up after tumbling ten feet, his head reels visibly, and his brothers shoot Prussia a dark glare. Prussia shrugs as if it was nothing, and Italy looks like he wants to murder him. "Do you want to know your signature?" Romano screams, his voice getting high-pitched as he shouts. "Then come here!" Prussia squeaks, frightened by Romano's sudden outburst, then starts running. "You won't get away that easy!"

I suddenly feel a light tugging on my long coat, not like the kind I get from Kumajirou. I look down and see Italy pulling on the tail of my coat. "Yes, Italy?" He hands me his whiteboard, then pats Kumajirou on the head.

'Do you want to see yours? I can show you!' I nod and he stands up, taking my gloved hands. 'Feel the magic, Mattie,' he mouths. No one has called me Mattie in ten years! I try to feel it inside of me, and, slowly, a glowing red ball evolves in front of me. America gasps when he sees it.

"Matt! What in the world is that?!" The energy feels new and exciting, and I slowly see something taking shape. "Is that a-?"

"A maple leaf," I say, finishing his sentence for him. It's true. My signature is a maple leaf. Italy claps happily, while France marvels at my creation.

"Incredible," he whispers. "Your signature has already evolved into a complex one!" I'm confused, I'm sorry, I am.

"What's the difference?" I ask. England begrudgingly summons his signature sphere, which merely sparkles.

"This is a simple signature. They are more universal and similar between two magicians," England explains, clearly unhappy. "It basically tells the world that I am not that great of a magician." My brother puts his arm around the older man.

"I think you're a freak magician, Iggy!" he says enthusiastically. Spain sniggers when England doesn't grasp the insult.

"Thanks, America, I never-. WAIT A BLINKING MINUTE, WHAT DID YOU SAY?!" America instantly takes off, with England right behind him. "GET BACK HERE, YOU UNGRATEFUL LITTLE BRAT!" America laughs.

Italy seems very happy about my signature. He gestures to Austria, who tries to decline, but is quickly reeled in by his big eyes. "Fine, Italy, you can do it." Germany finds this very amusing, going so far as to make faces. However, his attitude takes a turn when Austria produces a long strand of music notes. "Fascinating!" France hops up and down with joy.

"That's fantastic, Roderich!" France shouts. "You made a signature stream, which is much harder!" Austria nearly faints when he hears this, but Hungary throws her arms around him. I can't help but laugh at his face. He's surprised for two reasons...

This is an interesting afternoon. Italy manages to get Hungary to conjure hers, which ends up being a wild mustang. A curious thing to watch, if you could imagine. Romano ended up catching Prussia, who reveals that his signature is a flock of birds, though he won't tell us what kind of birds. America successfully evaded England, and he produces for us a blue five-pointed star. Finally, Germany is the only one left.

"Come on, Germany! It's cool, dude!" urges my brother. Germany, however, is adamant in not letting Italy's brothers touch his hands. I wonder why...

**AN: Yay, Mattie talked! Yes, his pagebreak symbol is '%' I'm done now.**


	6. I Want to Help Him Myself - Germany

**AN: Wow guys! You've got me updating twice in one day! I want to answer questions as quickly as possible, so bear with me. Again, thank you, LilDeadKitty for reading and reviewing! Okay, to answer the question as to why I'm not publishing this story as one whole thing, there are several reasons. One: it would be so freaking long. Two: it would be hard to differentiate where one part starts and where one ends. Three: each part is a completely different 'central issue'. It's explained a bit more on my profile, since this is my biggest story by far. It's going to have five parts, guys! Anyway, I should get on to Part Two: Darkness in about a month or so, I want to get a headstart before I let y'all read it :3 ON TO THE STORY! I do not own Hetalia~!**

ǂ

Why on Earth would I let Italy's brothers touch me?! No. If it's going to be anyone, I want it to be Italy himself. I want him to teach me how to heal him. I'm not being picky, just guilty. I feel awful about all of this.

Italy doesn't seem to be paying much attention, seeing as he's conjuring bubbles out of nowhere. It seems like some magic is easier that most, but I'm still scared, I guess. I've never used my own magic, and I don't even know if I can!

Suddenly, I feel someone take my hands. I look up and see Italy's face looking down at me. His tiny hands pass over mine, and I feel the magic. It's not his, but mine! The sphere takes it shape before my eyes, but I see Italy's shock when he sees the black orb. As it turns out, my signature is an Iron Cross, like the pendant I gave to him fourteen years ago. He jerks his hands back, and he retreats to his brothers, who seem as frightened as him.

"What?" I ask, holding the magic in my hands like a football. "Is something wrong?" Italy buries his face in Romano's shirt.

"It's grey magic, which is at the borders of black and white," Romano explains, snaking his arms around his brother's thin body. "Almost no one has ever had it, and often times magicians with it will revert to black magic. My little brother just doesn't want you to make that mistake." How in the world would I make a stupid decision like that?

"How was I supposed to know? I'm not psychic, like you probably are!" Romano takes this the wrong way and shields Italy from my sudden outburst. The younger slightly pokes his head over his brother's shoulder, and he seems unsure. "Italy, I won't be like my brother!" He recoils from the tiniest mention of my eldest, and might I add deceased, brother, the Holy Roman Empire. Many people in the room gasp at my use of this mention, while America, Canada, and England think nothing of it. Spain walks up and right out slaps me across the face.

"Don't you dare remind my brother of that boy!" he shouts. For a moment, I am lost as to why he called him a boy, then I remember that Spain is the oldest here. Oh, I can tell this is going to be a long day.

ǂ

I lay awake in bed, looking at the upper bunk, which is now occupied by Prussia. Someone taps me on the shoulder, and I roll slightly to see who it is. "Italy, what are you doing?" He kneels next to my bed with a limp stuffed dog pressed against his face. "Aren't you a tad old for stuffed animals?" I whisper. Italy nuzzles the little thing, and it's obvious that he thinks he isn't. "Well, at any rate, what do you want?" Stretching the fabric, Italy pulls his borrowed blue robe tight around him. He's trying to tell me that he's cold. "Do you want to sleep next to me, Italy?"

I lift the blankets up, and he gets in, his arms still around the tiny dog. "Does it have a name?" It is a stupid question, but the old toy seems to calm him. He writes in the air with his finger.

'Her name is Mishy,' he writes, his free hand cuddling it. Her, I'm sorry. *gag* 'She's a spaniel. She once was a real dog, but she died when I was two, so my mother made me this.' I realize that Italy almost never talks about his parents, even though he says this and that about his wonderful grandparents and brothers. 'My parents died when I was six, so I never really knew them.' Did he just read my mind?

"Did you ever think about what would have happened if they had lived?" I whisper in his ear, pulling the blankets up to his chin. He makes an emotionally tired face.

'It's better this way.' I don't quite understand, but I let it slide. He curls up next to me, and he presses one hand against my chest. 'You would have liked my father. He was a good soldier, and he would have liked you, too.' I feel a pang in my heart as I think about my father, who had always prided my oldest brother over me. 'He didn't pick sides when it came to family. He was just there for us.' His father sounds a bit like Prussia, who would always have a soft spot for family.

"Did he love you?" That's the million mark question. Well, in his case, liras. He nods, his head falling against my chest.

'More than anything, Ludwig. More than his own life, which is what it ultimately cost him.' Another pang in my heart, this time from realization. His father gave his life for his young children, and they have paid for it. 'He represented Rome, you know.'

"Really?" Another nod, this time slower. "Italy, are you falling asleep?" One last nod, which drops into nothing.

'My name is Feliciano, Ludwig,' he writes before ultimately falling asleep. I wrap my arm around him.

"Good night, Feliciano Vargas. Sleep well, and have peaceful dreams."

I once again dream of Grandpa Rome. This time, he is joined by my parents. They cuddle and fondle me and say endearing things, but I cannot return their kindness. They apologize for this before finally departing, but I cling to their memories tightly. How dearly I miss them.

**AN: aww, poor Feli. Anyway, a little headcanon mixed with some canon. THEIR PARENTS AND GRANDMOTHER ARE MY OCS, THEY ARE NOT CANON. Mishy is actually my stuffed dog from when I was little, or at least that's what she looks like. And Feli has a puppy instead of a teddy bear because stuffed bears were not popularized until President Theodore Roosevelt's time.**


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